Songs and Silence
by LadyofMythology
Summary: Despite Christine's marriage and departure, the managers of the Opera know the Phantom still lurks beneath the theater...they hire a young soprano in hopes that she will act as bait and lure him from his secret abode.
1. Fairytale Wishes

I love reading these fics and so I thought I'd attempt my own. Feel free to review, but if you are going to criticize I appreciate if it is constructive.:) And naturally let me attach the usual disclaimer: I do not own any Phantom-related characters, I am merely borrowing them for my amusement. :)

* * *

Spring came down from the mountains, striding in stately beauty through the valleys of southern France, laying down a raiment of flowers in her wake. She walked through the provinces, laying her hand lightly on the villages that she passed, causing grass blades to spring up and lilies and roses and narcissuses to unfurl their petals and watch her passing. Her path led her eventually from the wilds of the countries to the stately city of Paris, where the sun now painted the ancient buildings with crimson and gold and the Seine glittered in its rays. 

In Paris, that city of love and beauty, the spring saw the end to whispers of the Opera Populaire scandal, for it had grown dull and uninteresting in the face of other stories and rumour. The _haute ton_ of the city burned for gossip, thrilled to hear of new drama, and they were quick to flit from story to story, nevermind the lives and tattered reputations that were left in their wake.

The final whisper, spoken by a lady of wintry complexion to her companion at a fete, was simple: "I suppose with Christine and Raoul gone from Paris, the ghost of the Opera has vanished as well."

The response was a murmured nicety, for with two of the major players in the drama gone from the country there was little to hold interest for long. And thus the story that had burned so brightly for a moment's time was ashes, and the wind dancing about spring's ankles carried those ashes away.

The story lingered in one place only: the poorer quarters of the city. And it did not interest those who dwelt in poverty for the same reason as it had interested those of the glittering upper classes: they did not shiver as they whispered about the Phantom, that monster dwelling in the depths below the Opera house. No – he was hardly mentioned at all.

But those starry-eyed daughters of chimney sweeps and fishmongers and ribbon-sellers sighed over the fairy-tale ending of Christine Daae, who – but an opera girl – had been elevated to that circle of privileged people the like of which they rarely saw. If it could happen to her, they whispered and wondered, could it also happen to one of them? Would a wealthy viscount sweep in on his white horse and take one of them away, to a world in which silk ballgowns, diamond necklaces, and dancing until dawn was the norm?

Thus it was that, when the murmurs of monsters had dimmed and rumour had fled to plague other people and the managers of the Opera Populaire quietly submitted an advertisement to the paper requesting interested, opera-caliber singers to come forth and interview for the job that La Carlotta was soon to quit, many of the daughers of the lower class presented themselves at the door of the Opera on the appointed day.

In that line was a young woman of tender age and subtle beauty, daughter of a fabric merchant and a modiste, of humble background and upbringing. Her name was Silvia. She was not there, as many of the ladies were, in hopes of attracting one of the wealthy opera patrons as her spouse – she was there due to her love of singing. In her childhood she had been classically trained, the benefit of having a father who traded in expensive silks and velvets that the upper class so enjoyed. But an unfortunate fire had quickly put an end to any hopes of wealth that the family entertained, and recovering had been difficult, and the lessons had ended.

Humming a few bars of the song she had prepared, Silvia watched the slow meandering of the line ahead of her. She had few hopes of being chosen, not with so much competition, but the chance to sing on the stage of the Opera Populaire was enough to make the waiting worth it.

An hour more and she was finally called before the managers of the Opera, two gentlemen whose weariness sat upon them so heavily that Silvia doubted even a good sleep would cure it. They greeted her courteously enough, one rubbing the bridge of his nose, the other gesturing towards the stage.

"If you will, mademoiselle," he instructed her. She nodded and made for the steps.

When she finally stood at the center of the great stage, she lifted her eyes to the heights of the theater, her heart thrilling beneath her breast. The gilded columns, the hundreds of velvet chairs – in her mind she filled the seats with dazzlingly beautiful women and dashing men, all there to see her sing. A cleared throat drew her back to the present, and she curtsied sheepishly to the managers who sat patiently before her.

She began to sing, enjoying the rush of words in her throat as they poured from her soul to fill the Opera. It was a song she had learned long ago, something ancient, with so many meanings one could take what they wished from the words. Her voice rang over the velvet seats, clear and beautiful, and the managers drew their heads together in whispered conference.

A mere two days later she was, to her utter disbelief, invited to join the Opera Populaire's company. And when she strode in on the first day to meet the people she would be working with, everyone saw a slim, black-haired girl of pleasing features and sweet manner.

Everyone excepting the managers. They saw her for the reason they had hired her: as bait.


	2. The Secret Revealed

I realize this is not faithful to Gaston Leroux's version, and that Christine did indeed play Margeurite – forgive me please! And for those who read the original version, I made an oops and called the character "Gretchen" after the play version of Faust, rather than the Opera.

* * *

Silvia knuckled her aching back, humming low in her throat to keep her voice warmed up. The director had been running her – and everyone else, for that matter – ragged. Etienne and Marie-Cecile passed her by, whispering; she smiled at the two ballet dancers. She was slowly coming to know everyone but by virtue of her shyness it was taking some time to find her niche.

Everyone had become so used to La Carlotta's vitriolic ways that they had for the most part walked on tiptoes around her for the first few days, never sure what type of temper she had. She had only recently managed to convince people that she wouldn't throw a fit or work herself into a snit over silly things. The opera's seamstress had been the worst – Silvia had caught Madame Pericot flinching a few times, as if she expected a slap because a ribbon had come loose or a bodice was too tight to fasten.

"Pardon, mademoiselle…if you'll just lift your right arm I'll attend to the tear in the skirts." Madame Pericot smiled kindly at her, her hands full of pins and thread. The director had given the company a half-hour break from rehearsals – begrudgingly. There were a scant four weeks before the opening of "Faust", and much to do in the meantime.

"You're much slimmer than Carlotta, my dear," the seamstress commented, her agile fingers deftly working the needle. "But fortunately for you, Christine Daae played Margeurite before you and you are of like size…this costume required very little alteration."

"She was in 'Faust'?" Silvia questioned, curious about the woman who had caused so much stir within the Opera and within society itself.

Madame Pericot shook her head. "Well, no – it was the opera they had planned to present before the Pha…before…ah. That is to say…they replaced it with 'Don Juan Triumphant' and she never played Margeurite on the stage."

Silvia slid her gaze to the seamstress, hearing the unspoken words but deciding it was unwise to question the woman about the cause of the opera's replacement when so many here still seemed so nervous.

But she did not have to venture a question, for Madame Pericot smiled at her sheepishly and continued: "I am being silly. As you undoubtedly know, the Phantom wrote 'Don Juan Triumphant' and would have it no other way but that it was performed with Christine in the lead. And sad I was too, for I put many hours into this gown and I was rather proud of it. There was little to be done about it, though, for who would gainsay the Phantom?"

Silvia merely nodded, having no answer for the rhetorical question. "The managers could not deny him?"

"Oh, heavens no – he has them quite wrapped 'round his finger, for reasons I am not aware of. I imagine he resorts to blackmail of some sort, or threatens to ruin their shows if they don't do as he says."

"You speak in present tense, Madame Pericot – does that mean he still exists, still lives beneath the Opera?" Silvia was unable to suppress a shiver at the thought.

"Oof, now I've gone and worried you – do not upset yourself over the Phantom, my dear. He does not concern himself with the Opera anymore, now that Christine is gone. In fact I daresay he has gone away to pine over his love."

The last was a lie, and Silvia knew it.

The Phantom still lived beneath the Opera House.


	3. A Meeting in the Dark

Wagner's _Tristan und Isolde_ has been translated for the benefit of the readers – I imagine it sounds much better in the original German, but at least this way it is understanable! Please enjoy…and thank you so much for the reviews so far.

* * *

Silvia's slippered feet made little noise on the marble of the Opera's floors as she wended her way through the maze of hallways. Shadows danced in the corners, and a bell tolled solemnly in the distance. The Opera itself was silent, its denizens asleep – or at least, keeping themselves behind their bedroom doors.

Silvia passed by the silent doorways of the ballet dancers, noting with interest that a muted light leaked from beneath the entrance to the ballet mistress' room. She had spoken to Madame Giry only once, for the woman was often busy, and Silvia did not like the intensity of her grey eyes.

Turning from the hallway of doors, she continued on her way towards the entrance to the theater, her candle guttering in her hand. Easing the doors open on silent hinges, she stepped into the vast backstage area. The huge, heavy curtains draped like shrouds from the heights of the ceilings. They were drawn back from the stage, left in place from the rehearsal earlier that day; during the weeks of performances, they would be left closed in the evenings. But such little details were left until later: for now, the director was more concerned with line memorization and dancing technique.

Silvia was relieved to see that the curtains left the stage clear, for she did not have the strength to draw them back herself nor did she wish to alert anyone to her presence with the commotion it would make. Smoothing the skirts of her gown – she was wearing the dress Madame Pericot had sewn for the part of Margeurite – she stepped onto the stage. With her small candle she lit the candelabras at the corners, warming up her voice with scales as she performed the chore. The white silk skirts of her gown trailed after her, whispering over the black floor.

Returning to the center of the immense stage, she lifted her gaze as she had done during her audition to the rows of empty seats, knowing within a few weeks' time they would be full of opera-goers. A shiver of nervousness tingled along her spine, and with it one of elation. She began to sing, not a piece from 'Faust' but one from 'Tristan und Isolde', a lamentation. Were she performing the opera, her fair Tristan would be lying dead in her arms, his lifeblood pooling around them.

"_Art thou dead? Tarry but for one hour, one only  
hour. Such anxious days longing she watched, to  
watch but one more hour with thee. Will Tristan  
beguile Isolde of the one last ever-short world-happiness?_"

She continued the verse, crouching as if she cradled a lover, infusing her voice with desolation and loss. The room echoed with the song, an effect that was eerie in the stillness. It would not be so amplified when the room was full of bodies, she knew, and worked to increase her volume.

She moved from song to song, lamentations and jubilant celebrations, songs of love lost and love found, avoiding only the duets. Her partner in 'Faust' was a charming gentleman by the name of Lucien Nivelle, but she did not know him so well as to invite him along on clandestine practice sessions.

Her candle was nearly burnt out when finally she halted, glowing dimly on the dark stage. With a small twinge of guilt she exchanged it for one of the newer ones in the candelabras at the side of the stage, not wanting to be lost in darkness on the return to her room.

Frowning, she fitted the new taper into her candleholder with difficulty, twisting it into place. A noise behind her interrupted her task, and the candle fell from nerveless fingers, winking out before it hit the stage.

_Who prowls the Opera in the depths of the night_? Silvia wondered, her fingers shaking as she cast about for the lost candle. The candelabras bathed the stage and seats with a muted glow, but did not reveal detail. Finding the taper, she lit it quickly and willed herself to complete silence, listening for any hint of a noise.

She stood in stillness for a long span of time, ignoring her trembling limbs, unwilling to extinguish the little light the candelabras provided her with. But she couldn't very well sleep on the floor of the Opera's stage, nor could she leave the candelabras to be a fire hazard. Steeling her spine and whispering a mantra of reassurance, she turned towards the first candelabra.

And found the candles blinking out, one by one, seemingly on their own.


	4. The Ghost Comes Forward

Thank you for the reviews so far! If you've reread at all you may have noticed I made a mistake in Chapter 2 regarding Faust – I had Silvia playing Gretchen, who is actually from the play version of Faust, rather than the Opera. I've amended things there and here both! Apologies!

* * *

It had been long and long since he had heard such a voice.

In the echoing vaults beneath the Opera, the Phantom stirred from his musings and listened to the faint song disturbing the placid silence. Darkness pressed in about him, hemming him in cold solidarity, comforting him. He preferred the darkness, that entity which allowed him to hide, unjudged and unscorned. He had made the mistake of reaching for the light once. But never again. It burned, and scarred, and his heart, made vulnerable to Christine, was now cold and dead, capable only of primitive fury.

Anger burned slowly beneath his breast, a quiet wrath at whomever dared sing in such a way in his Opera and drag forth memories that he would prefer lay dormant. It was as that first night, when Christine's angelic voice had lifted in song and called to him, binding him with chains he still had not shaken off. Those chains tightened now, mockingly, bruisingly, and he shook with the force of his rage.

Standing suddenly, he made towards the exit before he realized that that had been the first voluntary movement he'd made since Christine's abandonment. He'd survived in the months since then purely by force of will, his movements mechanical as an automaton, not through any true desire to live but rather a desire not to die. Somewhere within the depths of his being was the smallest glimmer of hope that some happiness – no matter how small – waited to be experienced. Despite his cynicism, he refused to believe that even one such as he deserved a lifetime of torture; surely somewhere, sometime, somehow something would change. Something would give.

Chuckling under his breath, he forced such maudlin thoughts from his mind and drew his heavy cloak about himself, continuing towards the door of his home. The stage of the Opera was not really so far, not when one moved with the lithe grace and quiet stealth of the Phantom. He could not hear the voice once he left the depths where his home was situated; some trick of the tunnels funneled the noises in the theater towards the caverns below the Opera while leaving the quarters of the Opera staff undisturbed.

_Undoubtedly one of the ballet rats is entertaining the notion that she is La Carlotta_, Erik thought with irritation. _Would that she understood what an absurd aspiration that is, and leave me in peace._

As he approached the theater the voice was audible again, although it still seemed distant, even to keen ears such as his. Noiselessly he entered the great auditorium, not from his usual Box Five but from the area backstage.

Before him lay the grand gallery of seats, their red velvet the color of blood in the dim light of the candles. Against the dark background they made was a maiden in white, the spangles on her dress winking solemnly as the candlelight flashed over them, her back to him. Her arms were outspread as she entreated her invisible audience to share in the sorrow of the song she wove. Erik would have disdained such theatrics in any other woman, but this one…

There was such feeling in her voice, countless emotions that Erik knew would leave the insipid women of the upper classes in hysterical tears. It would be a sight to behold, had he any mind to allow this to continue.

As it was, he preferred the peace and safety of La Carlotta in the role of main soprano, and the ballet rats doing their duty.

Intending to move towards the corner of the stage and thence into the seats in order to see his serenader's face, he unwittingly allowed his cloak to rustle against a piece of scenery, the slight _whoosh_ of material against wood causing the woman to start.

Cursing himself silently, he watched amusedly as she relit her meager candle and then stood stock still – much like a rabbit, knowing it was stalked. Her arms trembled – he could see that from where he stood – but it lessened his desire to frighten her not a whit.

Smiling with cruel humor, he maneuvered to the nearest candelabra and deftly began to pinch the candles out, his glittering eyes on his prey all the while. Although her eyes were wild with terror, she did not flee, nor did she scream; she seemed to know there would be no escape, not if her captor did not will it.

She gave voice to her fear when he began to snuff out the candles on the second candelabra, calling out a tremulous "Who's there?"

He did not answer.

Silence reigned as he darkened the remaining candles. When blackness descended, he turned to look upon his victim, the pitiful girl from the corps de ballet who had chosen to sing the Phantom from his waking death and now would face the consequences. She was illuminated by her one candle, the light made brighter by virtue of its solitary existence. Her eyes sought for him in the dark, her lips atremble, and the sable hair that crowned her head fell over her shoulders, contrasting sharply with the stark white of the gown.

"Who is there?" she demanded again, her tone invested with false bravado. "Will you not answer me? Lucien? Sophie? Pierre?" She called out names of company members, hoping to coax her tormentor forward.

"I am none of those, my dear," Erik finally replied, his lips bent in a hard smile. "I am the Opera Ghost, and you have been singing on my stage."


	5. The Rules of the Opera

I don't really enjoy writing as the Phantom, so you'll pardon me if I don't very often. He is just such a mysterious character that it is hard for me to feel worthy of getting into his mind and writing from his point of view. But I hope his character comes through through Silvia's eyes and when I delve into his mind – and in a way that is satisfactory for you all. Leave me a note and let me know what you think! Sorry this one is so short, but I think it does what is necessary, for now.

* * *

She could not see beyond the perimeter of light that her candle provided, could not delve the darkness with her eyes. The voice of the self-proclaimed ghost sounded on her right side, but in all the tales of him it had been often whispered that he was a talented ventriloquist. She took a faltering step forward, holding the candle higher in order to increase the area it illuminated, but no one was revealed.

"Have a care," he whispered, now on her left, the beauty in his voice underlined with harsh malice. "The edge of the stage is near."

And he had her hemmed in behind, she knew. Anger began to stir within her, although not insistently enough so as to overrule fear.

Turning, she lit the ground before her, her candle held as a token to ward off evil. "What do you wish of me?" she asked, her mind desperately considering how to escape.

"Finally you ask the correct question, child," he returned, his cold breath fanning across the back of her neck. She stifled a shriek.

Suddenly she became aware of footsteps, as if he were pacing before her in consideration of his next words. As he had been silent before, this was certainly intentional, and the sharp click of his shoes on the hard surface of the stage jarred her thoughts.

"What do I wish of you, my dear girl? That you will limit your singing to odes to flowers and the weather, and that you carry on only when outside of my Opera. I do not appreciate upstart ballet dancers thinking so much of themselves as to assume they have free reign of the facilities."

"I am not a dancer," Silvia responded quietly, vehemenence creeping into her tone.

"Prop-maker, seamstress, scene-shifter, what-have-you…this may not continue." His tone was firm – final.

"I beg your pardon, but sir…I am the new soprano. Carlotta is retired and gone, and they have hired me in her place." This was spoken with deliberate politeness, her ire provoked with his heavy-handed orders.

Silence stole across the stage, a great pause during which Silvia's fear manifested itself again. Her eyes were weary from having nothing to gaze upon, for the darkness was so thick that no mortal's sight could adjust itself. Hysteria was threatening to rise, clambering for control in the back of her mind – it would be easy to give in, to cry and sob and beg for her freedom or to run blindly in hopes of escaping. A tremor wracked her body and a single tear escaped her stubborn hold on sanity and coursed down her cheek. "Please," she whispered, into the blackness.

Shoes clicked again, tapping over the stage, nearer and nearer. Suddenly they clove into view in the dim circle that her candle illuminated, two shiny dress shoes beneath black trousers. Silvia's eyes traveled from the shoes, along the leg of the pants and the elegance of the coat to the face of the ghost before her. A porcelain mask covered most of its surface, although beneath it the lips were fully revealed and twisted into a grin of spite.

"Thank you for the news, my dear." The Phantom leaned forward, leering at her. "You are free to go."

And so saying, he reached up with slim fingers and pinched out the candle in her hands.


	6. The Adventure of the SceneShifter

It was like drowning. She could not see, had no firm sense of direction, could not find her way to out. There were, besides, numerous props and trapdoors barring the way between her and the exit. She could not distinguish them but knew they were there, laughing at her, beckoning her mockingly to run their gauntlet.

She floundered for a moment, uncertain what to do. The voices tittering in her mind clawed for freedom, starting to overwhelm her. With weakened knees she sank to the floor, letting the candle and its golden holder fall and spin away from her. Her breath came in ragged hiccoughs as panic stole over her mind.

Silvia had never been one to fear the dark, but it had never felt so _solid_ before, nor threatening. She felt as if she were choking on it, and sweat beaded across her forehead. Dimly she understood that it was her panic that was personifying the dark – an instictive human emotion that, once recognized, she should be able to detach herself from. But its grip was too strong.

Even from the depths of madness she could sense the Phantom's presence when he knelt beside her. "I've no time to play nursemaid, child," he told her, annoyance evident in the timbre of his voice. "Returning you to your room would be the death of me, and you will admit you brought these consequences upon yourself," he explained, as if she were a child, and his slim hand smoothed her hair. "Nonetheless I shall give you peace, and perhaps you will thank me for it sometime."

With those cryptic words he began to sing, his voice as an angel's out of heaven. The demons of Silvia's mind paused to listen and then fled, leaving only calmness. Her eyelids fell over drowsy eyes and her breathing evened into the pattern of one asleep, and Erik finished the song quietly and left her to her dreams.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

It was a scene-shifter who found her the next morning. His duties required his early presence in the great auditorium, for in addition to moving the scenes during the operas he worked on their construction as well, and there was a great deal still to be done for 'Faust'. His eyes were bleary with sleep when he entered the hall, his jaw continually cracked in a yawn. His mind was yet fogged with drowsiness – enough so that he questioned his sanity when he espied a huddled white form in the middle of the great pieces of Faustian backdrop.

He could recall working on nothing of that particular shape and size. _Perhaps the fellows thought it necessary to construct sheep_? he wondered, still misinterpreting the form.

When finally he stood near enough to divine details, he recognized that the black hair, twinkling gown, and slender ankles belonged to no sheep but a woman. Specifically, the new diva, Mlle. Silvia.

His mind absorbed this information slowly, for it was not often that the singers of the Opera slept the night on the auditorium stage. Indeed, he had never heard of such a thing, and such a circumstance stretched his mental faculties to their limit. Crouching beside her, he nudged her as politely as he was able, unsure as to the procedure in such a situation.

"What in heaven's name!" A sharp voice had him turning to seek its source, and he heaved a great sigh of relief when Madame Giry stepped into view. "Marc, what have you done with Silvia?" she continued, and the relief faded.

"It wasn't me, Madame Giry," he protested. "I found her here like this just now, I swear it."

The lady in black pursed her lips in cold consideration, her eyes of steel fastened on him. "As you say," she finally relented, although she thumped her cane heavily on the stage when he made to stand. "As her rescuer, I am sure you will do your duty by her and carry her to her room. I'll accompany you to ensure you know the way."

_Or to watch an' make sure I do what you've said_, Marc thought sourly to himself, lifting the singer from her prone position and settling her in his arms. Madame Giry nodded with satisfaction, turning on her heel with an imperious gesture indicating he should follow, and strode towards the quarters of the Opera denizens.

When Silvia had been deposited on her bed and Marc dismissed, the great lady Giry sat at her side and studied the pale features of the Opera's newest member. She seemed a frail creature outwardly, but Madame Giry had to consider that she spent the whole of the night in the black and echoing auditorium with no obvious explanation. Questions whirled in her mind, but there was no use asking them of one who was asleep.

Leaving the diva to her rest, Madame Giry made a mental note to catch up with the woman later that day. If the suspicion she was entertaining were true, the child at least deserved a word of warning.


	7. Singing Walls

The walls were singing.

Silvia opened her eyes slowly, disoriented. Beneath her back was a mattress and above her were the wooden boards of her ceiling, not the lofty heights of the Opera theater. And the walls were not singing: it was only her mind, echoing with that angel's song of the prior evening.

She sat up, leaning on her elbows, glancing around her small quarters. _Would that I could recall what happened_, she thought in silent frustration. She remembered only darkness and song, and the ghost's apology for leaving her on the theater's stage.

Which led her to conclude that someone else had stumbled upon her. Her cheeks flamed in embarrassment as she suddenly realized in what state she must have been found. Had word spread to all of the company of her strange night's rest?

"Are you feeling better, my dear?" The words came from the shadows in the corner of her room, and Silvia started violently. "I would be most appreciative if you refrained from screaming…I only came to ascertain if you were in good health."

Her mind was thrown into chaos for a moment – to be addressed so casually by one who called himself the Opera Ghost had never been a daily occurrence for Silvia. "I am well," she finally ventured. "No thanks to you."

She clapped her hands over her mouth as soon as the words had left her lips. Snide remarks were not her usual fare.

He chuckled in response, moving slightly so that she could discern his form among the shadows. He was once again in dress clothes, his heavy cloak settled on his shoulders and a mask of white gleaming dully in the darkness. "You will – must – learn quickly that this is my domain. I require no thanks. Merely obedience.

"But now I am upsetting you, and truly I had only come to ease my mind as to your wellbeing." He examined his nails for a moment, as was the habit of many men who cultivated elegant _ennui_. "And perhaps to extract a bit of news from you."

"Thank you for your kind consideration," was Silvia's dry response.

He waved a hand to dismiss her thanks as if they were genuine and came forward another few steps. Silvia noted for the first time how tall he was, particularly when leaning over her as she sat in her bed. His slender frame loomed over her, his shadow smothering her. Involuntarily she sank back against the wall, ignoring the increased beating of her heart.

"La Carlotta – where did she go?"

His question was so abrupt it took Silvia a moment to formulate an answer. "She was weary of singing, so they say, and retired to the country." She paused, tilting her head to gather her thoughts. "There was something else as well…Madame Pericot mentioned a Piangi and his death. He was, perhaps, a lover?" She could not recall details.

The Phantom's eyes narrowed, his lips thinning into a satisfied smile. "So," he said under his breath, as if to himself, "that was all it would have taken. How simple!"

"I beg your pardon?"

The gentleman shook his head and took possession of her hand. "Nothing, my dear. Do not trouble yourself. Let me thank you once again for the news," he bowed over her captured hand, "and bid you farewell."

With quiet grace he withdrew into the shadows, halting only to display a sign of warning. "Remember, there will be no singing on my stage after the official rehearsals have ended."

He turned to depart, but paused and glanced at her once more. "And any mention of my presence would be very damaging to your health and career."

His warnings delivered, he melted into the darkness from which he had come.


	8. Warnings and Advice

CirceRose – your reviews are very insightful. :) In my head it made sense to have Erik return, as I'm trying to base him at least partly on Leroux's Erik, who is SO moody. One minute he's angry, the next he feels remorseful, etc. And I added the line about Silvia thanking him sometime to indicate he thought of it merely as a favor that she would be called on to repay at some point. Anyhow, there is where I was coming from – and I truly thank you for pointing out what doesn't make sense from the side of the reader…I guess I should stop expecting you all to read my mind, huh? ;)

I realize this is slow-going, but I'm trying to steer away from the type of story where the characters end in bed together after 3 chapters. ;)

* * *

Madame Giry cornered her after rehearsals, her black-clothed figure steeled for confrontation and her eyes cold. Silvia, humming the Jewel Song from 'Faust', saw her approach and swallowed the notes. "Madame Giry," she murmured, offering a curtsey.

"I would speak with you, if you've the time." Though couched in a request, it was a command, and Silvia could do naught but nod.

"My quarters are near—"

"No. Come with me. We shall go to mine." And with that, the stately lady led the way to her rooms within the depths of the Opera. They were not so far from Silvia's, merely along another hallway – the hall of the dancers. She was ushered inside efficiently and installed in a heavy chair, a delicate porcelain pot of tea on the table before her.

The room was well-appointed, the wooden floor covered with a heavy rug upon which three carved chairs sat clustered around a small table. Impersonal items of décor accented the room but gave nothing away about the woman herself. Even in its elegance it was austere, much like the ballet mistress.

Madame Giry offered her a teacup, its slender rim painted gold, and settled herself in the chair opposite. Silvia occupied herself with stirring honey into the liquid, uncomfortable but unwilling to show it. There was little doubt in her mind that the lady had requested this audience to scold her for the events of yesterday evening.

"You were wandering late this evening prior," the woman finally began, and Silvia was surprised to detect no hint of disapproval in the tone. She nodded in response. "What kept you from your rooms?"

There was little to be done with those sharp eyes upon her but tell the truth. "I had a mind to practice my singing. I didn't intend to stay for as long as I did, but there was a…mishap."

"A mishap." Silvia imagined that if Madame Giry were the type of woman to snort derisively, she would have done so then.

"Yes, madame. The candles all went out, and I could not find my way in the dark."

Silence descended and lengthened while Madame Giry studied her and Silvia returned the favor inobtrusively. "An interesting occurrence, to be sure. In days past many would have attributed such a thing to the Opera Ghost."

Silvia glanced upwards sharply, startled. His warning from earlier echoed in her mind, and she was sure it had been entirely genuine. On the other hand, Madame Giry did not seem the type to betray confidences or run directly to the managers with news she chose to share. Lowering her voice, Silvia confided the rest of the story to her. "Truth be told, a man who claimed that name is the reason for the incident…" Madame Giry nodded, unperturbed, as the singer related the remainder of the story. When finally Silvia finished, the lady in black sat back serenely, folding her hands on her lap.

"It is not far from what I expected. There have been claims that he cast himself into the lake and drowned, or left the scene of his heartbreak, but I did not think so." Leaning forward, Madame Giry took her hand and caught her gaze. "While I know more than most, I do not know what Erik is about. No one ever does – sometimes I wonder if even he knows. But allow me to give you a warning. He has been recently wounded by a woman, and probably desires to wound a woman in return. Do not let him exact his revenge on Christine through you."

Silvia sat back, her hand still caught in Madame Giry's grip, her mind reeling. "You have just informed me that I am, somehow, to outwit an unpredictable man. I can't imagine how even to begin."

The ballet mistress released her hand and shrugged slender shoulders. "I've no more advice than this: have a care when in his presence. Recognize his manipulations and do not respond to them. And beware his temper."

It was all Silvia could do not to roll her eyes heavenward at the advice she could have given herself and which helped her not at all. "My thanks for your concern, Madame Giry," she said instead, rising to depart. The woman escorted her to the door and bid her farewell.

"Good evening to you, child. May tomorrow morning find you in your bed."


	9. The Phantom's Wrath

I listened to Faust in French today, as it just happened to be on the radio. What a pretty Opera! Was rather inspiring as well, which is always nice for those of us who sometimes suffer writer's block. ;) I also purchased the POTO DVD and watched it…sigh!

* * *

"_Je voudrais bien savoir  
Quel était ce jeune homme,_"

Silvia sang the words quietly so as not to disturb her neighbors. She had heeded the Phantom's demand that she not sing on the stage after rehearsals, although truthfully she had been only too happy to acede to the wish. M. Reyer had lengthened the practices daily, summoning them earlier and releasing them later as the date of the performance drew near.

However, today the _Chanson du Roi de Thulé _had given her trouble, and she was still practicing the verses in hopes of satisfying herself with her performance. The rooms on either side of hers were as yet unoccupied, and so she was relatively sure that her voice was not disturbing anyone. Her fellow choristers often only sought their beds after the clocks had struck the early morning hours.

A gaslight and a few deliberately-placed candles lit the otherwise dark room, illuminating the sheet of music she held for guidance. Scraps of night clung to the corners, refusing to be chased away by the candle-glare. Her bed was not yet turned down, its surface spread over with music.

"_Si c'est un grand seigneur."_

The words sounded hollow in the small room, her voice limited by the looming walls. It was an unsatisfatory location in which to rehearse, yet Silvia did not deem it wise to test the genuineness of the Opera Ghost's threats. Rumors told her enough of his temper, and she was certain he would carry out his promises with nary a regret.

_Et comment il se nomme?_"

"Did I not instruct you to leave off singing except during rehearsals?" He spoke, as before, from the shadows, although this time Silvia heard a tiny _snick_ as some door or panel closed. Even as her heart hammered in startlement, she was relieved in some small way to know he could not actually walk through walls or materialize from the depths of darkness, as his name indicated.

"I wish you would not do that – would not come upon me unawares." She answered instead, her eyes catching his hard gaze as he emerged into the light. "You frighten me."

He paused, motionless for a long moment, his eyes reflecting some emotion Silvia could not identify. He looked almost as if he had been struck, and were he any other man she would have assumed he was reliving some deep past wound. But this man – he was so much icy hauteur and insurmountable arrogance, and he wore cruelty like a mantle.

"I have heard such words before, and from lips like yours," he finally murmured, his voice harsh.

Silvia did not reply – she had no words with which to answer. He confused her with his moods, even though arrogance and anger were perpetually evident.

She followed him with her eyes as he stalked to the lone chair in the room and lowered himself into it with the same grace with which he performed every move. He leaned back, his arms on the armrests, his slender fingers splayed on their velvet surfaces. Beneath the porcelain mask, his lips were bent in a frown.

It struck her suddenly how strange this was, to be entertaining a man who called himself the Opera Ghost in her small room. But her words of earlier had been true: he frightened her. Silvia knew only a small part of what had occurred in the months long past, and yet that was enough to impress upon her mind that he was someone whose authority was not to be challenged. The various reports had all attributed at least two murders to this man, as well as a kidnapping. Why he had not been hanged she could not comprehend, until she recalled his warnings. Was it that no one knew of his continued existence beneath the Opera, besides Madame Giry? And why had she not divulged the news?

And why was he sitting in her velvet chair, exuding a sorrow deeper than any she had experienced?

Her perplexedness leeched away most of her nervousness, and she went quietly to stand before him. "What troubles you, monsieur?"

The Phantom lifted his gaze to hers and in that moment she thought he would make her his confidante, share his turmoil. She wondered suddenly if she wanted such a thing.

But wonder she needn't have done, for when he caught sight of the music still caught in her pale hand his anger reasserted itself. With no warning, he tore the sheet from her fingers and shredded it with his own, seeming to enjoy it as the notes were ruthlessly dispatched and fluttered to the ground, music-less.

Silvia uttered a yelp of terror when he stood suddenly and closed his fingers on her wrist with crushing force. She took a step backwards to maintain her balance, for otherwise her nose was nearly brushing his chest.

"_You_ trouble me, madame." He spit the words at her, fury behind them all. She winced as if they were blows. With a subtle gesture, he bent her arm so that she was forced to move closer to him or suffer a broken bone. Tears gathered in her eyes from the pain and the fear.

He grasped her chin with his free hand, tilting her head uncomfortably so that she was staring upwards at him. "You dredge up memories you have no right to touch, with your singing. You inhabit Christine's room and have taken her place as the opera's soprano. You are a demon sent to torment me, and I will not be tormented!"

His grip on her arm was bruising, and she cried out when he bent it further and forced her onto her tiptoes. Tears escaped from her eyes, skittering down her cheeks, glistening like diamonds on her skin. His burning eyes bore into hers although he did not see – or chose to ignore – the pleading there.

_He has been recently wounded by a woman, and probably desires to wound a woman in return. Do not let him exact his revenge on Christine through you._ Madame Giry's words danced suddenly into her tumultuous thoughts.

"I am not Christine," she whispered through her pain, praying he would hear her through his wrath. "I am not…! You are not hurting her, by hurting me!"

She let fall the lids of her eyes after she had spoken, for she could no longer bear the dark look in his eyes. With ragged breaths, she awaited the mercy of the Phantom of the Opera.


	10. The Phantom's Mercy

Steph- I've gotten a few comments about making my chapters longer – I will do my best to do so. :) They seem long in Word, and then I upload them here and they suddenly are short!

Circe – that was a good point about tension in Chap. 9. I amended it accordingly. And no I haven't really put an age to Silvia…in my head I imagine she is in the 20-25 age range. :) A note for her for this chapter – she isn't meant to be a shrinking violet, but also I'm trying to write realistically and so, having just been accosted, she is a bit frightened and rather of the "wimp" variety at the moment. Hopefully it doesn't jar.

* * *

He could remember her scream after she had dashed his mask from his face, and then her terrified silence. His mind recalled the kiss she gave him, from lips she had shared with Raoul, and he could feel the weight of the ring in his hand when she had returned it to him. She had never relinquished the pieces of his soul she had taken, though. Even as he uttered those last desperate words, tears dancing down his face, on his knees before her – even as he had said "Christine, I love you" – even then she had regarded him only with distant pity.

And she had gifted him with his ring, as if it had been a better act to return to him after the kiss and raise the dying hope within him and to give him back the dainty circle of gold rather than to drop the cursed thing into the depths of the lake. As if he would ever have use for it again. As if seeing her after the burn of her lips upon his own would not inspire a thousand fantasies, a thousand hopes of her having second thoughts, fantasies and hopes that she would ultimately crush.

His brain was deluged with memories that he could not dismiss nor escape; his thoughts writhed with the pain of recalling her again. He had achieved a state of blessed numbness in the months since her departure, of beautiful unfeeling. Until the song some few nights ago, to which his ears and his mind had hearkened. The voice had been much like Christine's, soaring and pure and inspired, and once the memory of her was evoked the demons of his recent past had run rampant.

Through the haze of misery and anger that shadowed his senses he heard her name.

_I am not Christine_.

The voice echoed and echoed, piercing the fog. Behind it came more words: _I am not…! You are not hurting her, by hurting me!_

He did not understand them at the first. Erik forced his eyes to see, forced his mind from its dark paths and looked on the sight before him. The girl whose voice had awoken the fire inside of him was caught within his grip, her delicate chin held between his tapered fingers, her arm bent nearly to the breaking point behind her. Tears were drowning her cheeks, and her eyes were closed.

With a shudder of revulsion he let her go. "My God," he whispered, collapsing into the chair behind him.

She appeared not to have heard, fleeing instead to the opposite side of the room, cradling her wounded arm. Bruises were already beginning to manifest beneath the alabaster skin, dark blemishes that would mar her beauty. Erik noted the effects of his hands shudderingly, remembering what had driven Christine to hide in her room many a time during her tenure with him.

He had a stronger capacity for fury than any other emotion, something he had never regretted nor felt shame over in his early years. Indeed, he had used it to his benefit, had even enjoyed the results of it: the murder of his gypsy keeper, the pleasure of the sultana in Persia, his revenge upon the prying Buquet.

But Christine had planted a seedling of doubt within his mind – doubt that giving in to anger was ever the preferable option. And a worser doubt – doubt that his horrifying appearance had been the sole cause of her leaving him. He had wondered many times after that last night, when the lovers had gone from his lair and from Paris entirely, if there was something different he could have _done_. Had he resisted the temptation to become her Angel of Music, would she have been open to his approach? And if he had driven away the urge to rid the world of his rivals for her affection, would she still be at his side, allowing him to coax divine music from her throat and accepting the love he had tried to heap upon her?

The mind often turned to _what ifs_, as if there was something comforting in living out a fantasy that had no hope of ever being true.

Shaking himself from the grip of the past, he slanted a glance in the direction of the young singer. Her cheeks were wet with tears but they no longer leaked from her eyes, and she was watching him warily. There was little she could do to escape if he came at her again, and she knew it as well as he did, but nonetheless she watched him as if to avoid an attack. It was a look he might otherwise have been pleased to see in her eyes – fear at his presence – but the weight of so many past sins sat heavily on his shoulders and he wondered suddenly if it was worth it.

And then he recalled the managers and their vow to capture him, and knew that he _had_ to keep her under his thumb. If he gave an inch, there was little question that she would run to them with the news of his existence and the hunt for his head would recommence. It had been a difficult time of it after Christine had left, and for many days he had lived in the night-dark tunnels surrounding the lake, only able to watch as his house was ravaged and destroyed. It had been a long time before his hunters had given up on their quarry, and he did not desire to live like that again.

"I apologize," he finally offered, in a voice stiff and formal. Standing, he bent his steps towards her until he stood at the foot of her bed. "You must take care not to anger me, little one."

He had said such words to Christine, at that time laying the blame for his anger at her feet. He knew better now.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, he extended his hands and beckoned to see her wounded arm. Her eyes were wide, her bosom rising and falling heavily as she drew in frenzied breaths. As he sought for her arm, she jerked back, retreating farther into the corner, scorning his touch. Her limbs shook noticeably.

Unwilling to force her, he instead retreated behind a wall of coldness. "As you wish," he said aloud, grimly, rising from her bed. "Be sure to ask Madame Pericot to sew sleeves onto the Margeurite gown. Bruises are not becoming on an opera diva."

Her mouth fell open, as if she had not considered that aspect of his assault. He turned away from her reaction and made for his exit. Efficiently he maneuvered the panel within the wall that had once been the door behind Christine's huge, heavy mirror, disappearing into the darkness of the underground.

Silvia followed him with her eyes, her emotions a confused jumble of anger, shame, and pity. She could not move the arm he had bent behind her, and sought for a story to provide Madame Pericot with when requesting the costume additions. Would a fall from her bed have caused such a mess of bruises? She did not think so, but could think of no tale that would be an improvement.

Her face was little better, although his fingers had only depressed into the skin far enough to leave red marks, impermanent. Even so, her jaw ached. _All_ of her ached. Her chest was sore from heaving in air, her toes smarted from the weight they had taken. Little wonder that Christine had taken pains to leave Paris and its immediate vicinity.

She noted abruptly that her fingers were still trembling and fisted her hands to still them. With him gone it was an easier task to force the fear from her system and allow calm to wash over her. In the past she would have hummed herself into peace. No longer.

The candles had burnt themselves down, their white wax pooling in the holders beneath them. Darkness crept on wingéd feet, waiting to overtake the room when the flames failed. Silvia had not realized the small chamber had once belonged to Chrisine. No hints of her existence nor mementos of her time at the Opera remained anywhere within the small area, no pictures left behind nor possessions forgotten.

It was disconcerting to know the history of her chamber. Briefly she considered petitioning the managers for a change of rooms, but she had no desire to trouble them. They had enough on their plate as it was, for only yesterday a ballerina had snapped an ankle and needed replacing with all due haste.

Sleep came slowly, for the world of dreams was reluctant to welcome one whose thoughts spun so rapidly. Only when she had abandoned her contemplation of the Phantom and begun to count the hours until her debut did peace, finally, steal over her.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

A note was at her bedside when she rose the following morning. In the blood red wax that sealed it was imprinted a grinning skull. The text within was written in a careful script, as if the author had labored over each letter. The ink was as red as the wax, and bled over the page.

_You will sing for me this evening_.

That was all it said – all it needed to say. Silvia knew who had written it. She tried not to imagine how or when it had been delivered, tried not to wonder if he had gazed in tempting cruelty at her prone form before departing. She shivered as a sudden chill took her, knowing the Phantom would see to her obedience of his command if she did not follow through voluntarily. And the former promised to be a harrowing experience.

Her voice was unsteady that day, frustrating M. Reyer and her fellow singers. She found herself apologizing more than once for an off-key note or missed entrance. Madame Pericot gazed at her sympathetically from where she was tending to the costumes of the company, seeming to recognize that something was off-balance. Madame Giry studied her with cold curiosity.

Silvia nearly wept with relief when rehearsals were finally halted for the day. She probably would have succumbed to tears had she been allowed to return to her room. But the diminutive assistant seamstress plucked her sleeve and begged her to follow her to Madame Pericot's workroom, wherein she found both the head seamstress and the two managers.

The latter were smiling at her in condescending benevolence. She curtsied and waited to be informed of what was going on.

"You will be presented to the patrons and guests of the opera after your first performance, my dear," Andre volunteered, smiling like a proud father. Or one whose horse had just taken first prize in a race.

"They will all be very pleased to make the acquaintance of one who sings like an angel," Firmin added, and Silvia dropped her gaze in a graceful blush at the compliment. "You must, therefore, be arrayed in attire fit for an empress, for what opera diva would allow herself to look the lesser of the pair?" He chuckled at his own joke and indicated Madame Pericot. "If you will, madame."

Leaving her in the seamstress' hands, the two managers bid her farewell and departed.

Two hours later she was holding in a breath as Madame Pericot expertly reinforced the seam along her ribcage. The majority of the dress had been constructed in the past few weeks, and needed only a fitting to finish it. Although truth be told, Madame Pericot had come very close to sewing it without error the first time around. Silvia was astonished at the near-perfect fit, and said so.

"I appreciate the kindness, madame," the seamstress protested, "but I cut the fitted pieces to match your Margeurite costume, so I mustn't take too much credit."

Silvia tutted, insisting the woman wove masterpieces. The material of the dress was the sullen red of a bruised heart, boned throughout the bodice and flowing in a waterfall of fabric from her waist to the floor. The neckline displayed the long column of her throat and her bosom to their advantage, and the sleeves were long and fitted.

_It wants only a necklace of garnets_, she thought silently, although she expected no such thing. The material itself must have cost a fortune. And as it was, tiny glittering stones were sewn at all of the hems, beckoning the light to their surfaces and casting it away again in sparks of fire.

"There you are, _petite_." Madame Pericot straightened and stepped back, admiring her. "It is finished. Have a care with it – you must keep it in your wardrobe until the day of the performance. I'd be afraid of it disappearing into the hands of one of the ballet rats or choristers if I stored it in here." She laughed softly.

Silvia nodded, stepping wordlessly from the small platform on which she had stood to submit to Madame Pericot's ministrations. She felt like a queen. An empress. A goddess even. Determination welled beneath her breast to astound the audience who came to see her, and then amaze them again with her wit and kindness after the performance.

Laughing wryly at herself as she fell back to earth again, she took her leave of Madame Pericot and hurried to her rooms. While the red dress might feel like armor – it still felt as if it girded her in security and confidence – in the end it would be up to _her_ to live up to the standards of the society lords and ladies who would come to see her.

Deftly she turned the knob of her door and eased it open, stepping inside the gloomy chamber in which only the dim gaslight glowed. She deposited the clothing she had worn to practice on her bed, reveling still in the feel of the red dress as she went about the room to light the candles.

"Come." The words drifted to her from the now-open panel in her wall. "Come and sing for me," he beckoned with his voice. She turned to face him.

He stood in the light of the candles, but said no more. His arm was frozen, outstretched, intended as an invitation. His eyes reflected the light but beneath that glimmer they conveyed some raw emotion – awe, perhaps, or disbelief.

She had forgotten the singing appointment until that moment, but there was nothing to be done except obey. Quietly she went to him, and solemnly she placed her hand upon his arm. The touch seemed to jolt him from whatever stupor he was experiencing, and he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and drew her close to him. "You are a vision," he said, the gravelly quality in his voice skittering along her spine.

They stood thus for an uncomfortable moment, her hand on his arm, her head tilted so that her eyes could look into his. And then he spoke again, cleaving the tension.

"Come – give me a taste of the Opera _Faust_."


	11. A Taste of Faust

If I haven't said it already, then let me say now: I am honoured by all of your reviews. Thank you all for your time, it means a lot. :)

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The panel in the wall was swiftly dealt with and slid soundlessly inwards. Erik, with the singer's delicate hand on his wrist, guided her through the entrance carefully. He hardly dared breath for fear she would vanish – the compliment he had given her had been literal, for certainly she was a vision conjured up by his tortured mind. The red dress suited her ivory skin and raven hair perfectly: she looked as one who had stepped from a golden garden of the gods, some immortal who was visiting earth for amusement or pleasure.

But then, Christine had looked to him like a goddess as well at one point. And it mattered not how they looked, because no one would ever be able to see past how _he_ did. He hardened his heart and mind, refusing to play the fool again, determined merely to enjoy her for her voice and the teaching opportunity tonight would afford him. She need be nothing else to him – could not be. _Would_ not be, anyway, for she was afraid of him and had not even seen past his mask yet.

She was silent beside him, gliding like a crimson specter, her wide eyes glancing over the tunnel arching before them. Her breath came a bit quickly, a testament to her anxiety. "Do not worry," he heard himself saying, inwardly scolding himself for surrendering to the need to reassure her. "I am here – nothing occurs in my domain without my consent."

She nodded wordlessly, her eyes seeking for his. He allowed her to catch his gaze, momentarily softening his expression. She seemed comforted by whatever she found there and turned away. He cleared his throat gruffly.

The path fell away before them, becoming an open expanse of stone. Water lapped insistently at its bank, and on the surface of the water a boat floated. Silvia halted when the Phantom bid her to, studying the great domed area before her. She had heard of the lake beneath the Opera, but had not dreamed of anything like this. Though dark, she could make out the hulking shape of what she thought was a house across the black water. Was this his home? Where he had lived, alone, for so long? How had he come to this place?

Sympathy stole into her heart to see the house he had made for himself in the depths of the earth. "Do you ever see the sun?" She asked in spite of herself.

He stilled, although with his back to her she could not judge his reaction. "Men do not suffer me aboveground, little one. It is rare that I go out." He spoke somewhat lightly, as if the opinion of society meant little to him. And maybe it truly did. But Silvia frowned, her opinions of the man at war with eachother. He was a killer of men, but he had not always been. What was it about the Phantom that made him shun society, and made society shun him in return? Was the face behind the mask as horrible as she had heard in whispers? "Monster!" the scene-shifters and choristers and ballerinas assured eachother, but none of them had ever truly seen.

"Take my hand, child, and step onto the boat. You will not fall," he promised her, extending his hand. She grasped his arm and lifted her feet one after the other over the rim of the boat, holding her skirts away from the water that splashed along the bank.

He pushed off from the dock with graceful ease, poling the vessel across the lake. Although he was silent, it was not the usual cold, unapproachable silence. Brave in the armor of her red dress, Silvia tried to initiate a conversation. "How long have you lived here beneath the Opera?"

The Phantom glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression one of faint amusement. He would humor her whim to talk it seemed, at least for a little while. "Many long years. It is a place of hiding. It is also home."

"Hiding from society?"

"Now, yes. In the beginning I was trying to avoid the eyes of the government of Persia, though. Nadir knew of my existence, but for his son's sake would never tell. Even so, the price on my head would have been enough to convince even my dear mother to report my whereabouts."

Silvia's mind was awhirl, but even amidst the thoughts she detected the note of bitterness when he spoke of his mother. "The government of Persia?" She asked, thoroughly confused.

"The sultana had been…fond of me, I suppose you could say. She leaned on me for a great deal of advice, so much so that eventually I knew too much. And while she liked to think of me as one of her pets, she knew as well as I did that I would – and could – leave when I pleased. Rather than risk my running to a rival government with state secrets, she ordered my death."

Her indrawn breath was loud in the echoing cavern. "She would not seek you so far as here, would she?"

"It does not please the sultana to lose. She would, and did. And even though it was long ago, I would not be entirely surprised to find one of her agents at my throat tomorrow."

He did not sound bitter, only annoyed as if the sultana and her ilk were naught but mosquitoes buzzing in his way. Silvia did not doubt for a moment that he could overcome whatever the lady sent after him. He was not a mere murderer of defenseless men – he was a warrior, clever and sly and cruel.

Gravel crunched as the boat slid onto the bank of the opposite shore. Sharp rocks thrust upwards through the water, standing like sentinels around the home of the Phantom. Silvia waited until he had stepped from the boat before allowing him to assist her. Her skirts were heavy and full and difficult to manage, and in her slippers it was difficult to gain a solid foothold on the rocky ground. She clutched his arm tightly as she stepped carefully from the boat to the shore, gasping an "Oh!" of surprise when her foot slid backwards and propelled her into him.

She found herself against his chest, locked in arms that steadied her as she righted herself. "Oh," she breathed, embarassed. "I am truly sorry." Glancing upwards, she found his face very close to hers, the porcelain mask dim beside the glittering eyes beneath.

"Have a care – it is difficult ground here." He did not release her, but he loosened his hold so that she could move again. Maneuvering her so that she was by his side, he glanced at her. "May I?" he asked, and when she only nodded dumbly he slid his arm about her waist. It remained there, burning through the fabric of her bodice, for the entire walk to the house.

An insidious thought flittered into her head, a temptation to stumble again and feel his arms around her, surprising every notion she had of herself. She jerked her chin downwards, staring at the ground to prevent her flaming cheeks from showing. He had been warm, solid, protective, and every nerve in her body was now afire.

His hands fell away from her when they reached the entrance to his home and he eased the heavy door open and ushered her inside. With a _snick_ he shut out the rest of the world and drew her deeper into his abode. She took in her surroundings with amazement, awed by the beauty of the furnishings even while she wondered how long it had taken him to aquire everything. The thick carpets, the carved mahogany furniture, the marble statues of graces and muses. Paintings in gilt frames hung on the walls and trinkets of every shape and size added color to the mantles and shelves.

He led her through the rooms, allowing her time to admire and answering her questions. Only one door was closed, and she did not ask about it nor did he volunteer any information. She reasoned that it was his bedroom, and she cared to see it as much as he cared to show it.

"The organ room, where you will sing for me," he announced gravely, bowing her into the final room of the house. The walls swept upwards into a domed ceiling, and an immense organ dominated the room. The pipes were gold and glinted softly in the light; the keys were ivory, the rest of the instrument black. A crimson chair sat before it, and a matching couch faced it as if he entertained audiences often.

The Phantom seated her courteously before taking the chair before the grand organ. To see him sitting there about to play for her, Silvia no longer felt so much as if she had to obey him out of fear. She was intrigued. Her mind was not in another place – it was in this room with him, waiting to be entertained as if she were any guest in the home of a gracious host. It suddenly did not seem so hard a task to unbend a little, to stifle her fear and become familiar with him.

_But his anger, his callousness_, she reminded herself sternly. Would she be putting herself in harm's way if she sought to further their acquaintance? Could he respond as a friend to a friend?

Certainly she would be putting herself in harm's way if she broke things off entirely.

That, at least, she knew for certain. So where, then, to proceed from here?

He set his fingers to the keys and began to play, and she forgot to think. The music he drew from the instrument was beautiful, soul-cleansing. Tears crept to the corners of her eyes and down her cheeks and her breath caught in her throat when finally he finished.

She leaned forward, her hands clasped at her breast, bound to him by the music. He turned to see her reaction and was caught off-guard by what he found there: passion. Her wet cheeks were more of a compliment than any flowery words could be. When she lifted her hand to him he caught it immediately, enclosing it in his gently. "Oh, Christine."

Silvia started, the entrancement that had ensnared her gone. Quickly she withdrew her hand from his, her mind a strange whirl of emotions: discomfiture, jealousy, and confusion _at_ her jealousy. "My name is Silvia," she murmured quietly, striving to keep all traces of envy out of her voice.

"I know," he said, nodding. "I know. I apologize." He did not say anything more, and she let the silence stretch. His apology, while genuine enough, had not been very reassuring and Silvia was startled to find herself hurt.

Erik watched her from lidded eyes, unsure how to apologize for so grievous a mistake. It was such a slight thing, a name, but it was part of what made a person themselves – in some cultures it was as important as the soul. He feared he had insulted her, and feared that he was upsetting her more by not explaining further, but he had no idea what to say. Besides, he was taken aback by the injury in her eyes: what did it mean? Was it a matter of pride, or a matter of caring? The difference meant all the world to him, but it was the last thing he could ask.

Clearing his throat, he opted for the tactic that he had often employed when in awkward situations: he nudged the subject in a different direction. "It is your turn, now. Will you sing for me the Jewel Song?"

He could see that she did not want to let the matter rest, but she did not argue. _Would I have explained everything, had she asked?_ He wondered. He placed his fingers on the ivory keys. _No_, he finally decided._ Trusting human beings is too hurtful. She will run from you soon, as they all do. Just enjoy her voice_.A heart of ice was ever preferable to a shattered one.

Her skirts rustled as she stood and moved closer to the organ. "I am ready."

He pressed the keys, playing the song from _Faust_ so that she could accompany him. Her voice soared in the domed room, handling the notes and emotions skillfully.

Silvia sang as she never had before, even better than when she had performed on the huge auditorium stage. It was not the room nor the acoustics, but the Phantom's beautiful playing on the organ. His deft fingers struck the notes so they fitted with what she sang perfectly, melded what was merely a song into something more glorious. When the last note died away Silvia sighed wistfully.

"That was beautiful. You sing beautifully," he complimented her, turning. "Silvia."

She offered a smile in return. "You play beautifully. Would that you could be my accompaniment at the true performance. I do not sing half so well on my own."

"That is not true. I only coaxed out skill that was already there. Sing it again, without my playing, and I will teach you." He stood, coming to stand before her, his arms folded in the approximation of a stern teacher.

She cleared her throat nervously but did as he bid, allowing him to stop her where he would and give advice. By the end of the lesson she felt as if she had made more progress than in all the years with the music tutors her parents had hired for her. The Opera Ghost had a brilliant mind for music, and for teaching. With simple instructions he had taught her how to improve the voice she already had, coaxed from her music more beautiful than she knew she was capable of.

He felt immeasurably proud when he finally halted the lesson. She was malleable under his touch; she listened to what he said and allowed herself to be taught. With Christine there had always been a touch of fear involved. With Silvia he was not finding it so. She was able to put aside her concerns and _learn_.

But she was dangerous. He could see Christine in his mind's eye, remembered well the pain. He had been content before he knew the young Swedish singer, and he had been numb afterwards. He had been rejected his entire life, but Christine's rejection had been the soul-deep kind. There was no doubt that he could not survive another experience of that sort. If he let this continue with Silvia, could he keep it off that path?

_The risk is too high_, he thought.

"I am grateful that you came to sing for me," he said aloud, taking her hand again. "I will escort you back to your rooms now."

"So soon?" Silvia asked, biting her lip the moment the words left her mouth.

He chuckled, although it was a herculean effort to keep his true reaction of shocked hope out of his voice. "So soon? It is late – time you were in bed and resting your voice."

Silvia allowed him to lead her from his great house and hand her carefully into the boat. They were as silent on the return as they had been on the trip to his home. When they reached the entrance to her room he turned her towards him, smiling down on her.

"Sleep well, little one." He lifted his hands to frame her face and his lips descended – her mind fluttered and she closed her eyes, her heart pounding. _He will kiss me!_ She thought breathlessly.

He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead and released her. With a nod of his head in farewell, he disappeared back towards his home, leaving Silvia standing speechless on the threshold of her room.

In the morning, another note:

_Thank you for your song, Silvia. Your voice is a beautiful thing; use it well. I will come to watch you sing your debut, but will see you no more afterward. Enclosed is a token of gratitude and farewell. _

_Yours,_

_Erik_

Silvia unwrapped the paper that had accompanied the letter, catching the shining thing that fell from the wrapper in the palm of her hand. It was a necklace, simple and elegant. Suspended from a delicate chain of gold was a garnet cabochon the size of an egg. Its color matched the red dress nearly perfectly.

It was beautiful. A token of gratitude he had said.

And of farewell.


	12. A Necklace of Garnets

The frenzied bustle of the Opera was at its highest peak; choristers sang their scales as they laced their costumes, ballerinas practiced steps frantically, the managers strained to have their voices heard over all of the noise. Madame Pericot and her assistant traveled through the crowds to ensure every stitch was still in place; occasionally the pair paused to mend something.

Silvia stood away from the crowds, forcefully blocking the commotion out, humming to keep her voice warmed up. It was the evening of her debut, and the performance was set to begin. The Marguerite dress sat lightly on her shoulders, the lengthy white skirts sweeping towards the floor. Her eyelids glimmered with powder applied by the talented Mlle. Elené, who had also curled her hair and brushed it loose over her shoulders. Tonight she was the ingenue, a creature of innocence and beauty, an irresistable target for Méphistophélès.

She glanced downwards at the gown she wore, remembering suddenly the night she had met the Phantom. Her heart quickened slightly – he had said he would be here tonight. True to his word, she had not seen him since her singing lesson. Every day she had expected to find his vow broken, to hear his voice in her ear or the sound of the hidden door sliding open. But except for what her imagination conjured, there had been no hint of him.

She found she was disappointed. Had she not been so wrapped up in rehearsals, so very busy perfecting Marguerite, she might have summoned the courage to seek him out herself. _Another lesson would be well worth it._

Soon, she would try. It was an ironic turn of events, to be actively seeking the man who had frightened her so much. But the evening of the singing lesson had altered her opinion of him, and something in her urged her to discover more about the man who so many called monster.

"Are you ready for your grand entrance?" Madame Pericot's eyes twinkled as she approached. She checked the seams and hems of the Margeurite gown quickly, assuring herself that nothing was amiss.

Silvia swallowed. "As ready as I will be," she said, smiling back.

"I've every faith that you will sing beautifully." The seamstress squeezed her hand comfortingly before taking herself off to continue her duties. Silvia was left feeling a little less anxious.

The performance went quickly, without any noticeable problems. Silvia sang with the words of Erik still in her thoughts, minding his advice, singing as if it were she and he alone in the domed room with the grand organ. When the time came for her bow to the audience, she was greeted with rioutous applause – indeed, as all the performers were. It had been a stunning success and Silvia turned with flushed cheeks to smile at the managers, who were beaming down upon their company.

The bustle of the backstage was twofold after the performance, for in addition to the Opera members, favored patrons were already being shown backstage. Silvia was quickly hurried to her room by a pair of burly scene-shifters per the orders of the managers and instructed to change. One of the gentleman presented her with a box before he left, pressing the velvet package into her hand.

Closing the door against the noise, Silvia leaned against it for a moment and breathed deeply. The singing had been the easiest part of the evening – now came the time to face the demanding Opera patrons.

Her armor hung in the wardrobe, the red skirts of the dress just brushing the bottom of the closet. Taking it down from its place, she quickly stepped out of the Marguerite gown and into the heavy crimson one. It was with some difficulty that she laced up the back, but once the bow was tied she returned to the bed, where she had lain the velvet box.

_Who?_ She wondered, but even as she opened it a note fluttered to land on her skirts. Retrieving it, she scanned the lines: _To compliment the red dress, and your beauty. Yrs, M. Andre & M. Firmin_.

Another gift from the managers? She creaked the lid open and gasped at the sight: a necklace of gold and garnets. It was heavy – a collar that would sit about her neck from which dripped hundreds of tiny red gemstones. She touched it lightly, feeling the smooth coolness of the stones.

Then, gently, she closed the lid and laid the box on the stand beside her bed.

The garnet cabochon from Erik was what she would wear. She took it from where she had hidden it, underneath the stockings in her bureau, and fastened it around her neck. It rested, glittering, above her breasts, against her ivory skin. With a final glance in her glass to assure herself that she was presentable, she left her room.

And found the managers – in addition to a large crowd of Opera guests – awaiting her.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur as she shook hands with and kissed the cheeks of the ladies and lords who had witnessed her debut. It was gratifying and embarrassing at the same time to receive so many compliments, particularly when the person paying the compliment was a young lord trying to impress. She was grateful that M. Andre and M. Firmin remained at her side to handle the introductions and discourage those who desired closer acquaintances. Silvia realized they would not always act as her guardians, but it was reassuring to have them with her that evening.

When they finally released her and shooed off the rest of her admirers, she was utterly exhausted. Returning to her room, it was all she could do to keep her heavy lids open long enough so that she could unfasten and step out of the red dress. It remained in a puddle of fabric on the floor.

Lying on her bed, it was but moments before she dropped into sleep.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

"Did you see the necklace, Andre?" Firmin queried excitedly, shutting the door behind him. The night had been a grand success, and the managers intended to spend what was left of it counting the ticket receipts.

Andre nodded, smiling slightly. "She has no paramour that I know of. There was not a flicker of recognition in her eyes with any of the young swains we introduced her to tonight."

"Then we may conclude," Firmin stated, "that the Opera Ghost has discovered her." He caught himself on the edge of a gleeful laugh, and grinned instead. Sitting at the desk before his partner, he selected a handful of receipts and began to sort them.

"Not only discovered, my dear friend," answered Andre, "but put his mark on her as well. Did you see the size of that stone?"

"Yes, yes. It is certainly the touch of the Phantom. What now, though?"

"Now," returned Andre, lighting another candle, the better to count the receipts by, "we wait. When _Faust_ has finished its run, we will stage another Opera. I imagine you can guess the one I am thinking of?"

Firmin glanced up, his eyes bright with mischief. "Ah! One that was written for us not so long ago, by a certain Red Death? Brilliant, my friend…brilliant. But," he asked, leaning closer, "do you think the Phantom will truly be tempted to visit again, after what happened the last time _Don Juan Triumphant_ was staged?"

"I am counting on it, Firmin. In fact, I am less worried about _him_ showing up than I am about an audience showing up." Andre paused in his sorting and set his gaze on Firmin's, his eyes suddenly hard. "But the loss of revenue will be worth it when we catch the monster who has been tormenting the Opera, once and for all."

"Quite so, Andre," Firmin nodded. "Quite so."


	13. Trespassing

Those of you who haven't ever visited www . phantom fans . net ought to check it out. Take out the spaces, of course - it wouldn't let me list it otherwise:) It is a great community of phans.

* * *

Her room smelled of roses. 

A young errand boy staggered under the weight of her most recent gift, a cut-glass vase full of long-stemmed pink blooms, placing it with care where she directed. She had received a good many bouquets since her debut, so many that sleeping was almost impossible with the sweetness in the air. Each of them was accompanied with a note – sometimes it was merely polite well-wishes, sometimes a hint at something more. The former she kept, the latter she burnt. Selling her body for profit, becoming a kept woman as a few of the ballerinas did, was something she had no interest in doing.

"Thank you," she called after the boy as he scurried from her room, his chore finished.

That evening's performance – the one on stage, and the one for the benefit of the patrons, that dance of socializing – was finished, and there would be no Opera for the next two days. It was a small break for the company, allowing singers to rest their throats and dancers their weary limbs. Silvia was glad of the reprieve; although she enjoyed playing the part of Marguerite, she was not so enamored of the role of diva which had been thrust upon her by the managers. The public expected another Carlotta, a tempestuous woman who favored some with kisses and some with taunts, easily flattered and even more easily fooled. Silvia was quiet, demure, proper. More like a well-born lady than a quintessential diva.

_Except that well-born ladies do not creep into the cellars of the Opera in the darkest hours of the night_, Silvia thought wryly, as she removed the sparkling red dress and replaced it with something sturdier. A linen gown in ivory tied with a simple sash was much more fitting for the journey she was about to make. Not ideal, but as best she could do in the circumstances.

As she dressed, she wondered again if she was wise to risk his wrath. She had come away with bruises after her last misstep. But she had sensed a change after that, as if what he had done had horrified him. He had been gentler the night of the music lesson. But was a single night enough to overrule her other memories of him? What was it that drove her into the cellars tonight? What inspired her to make such a journey, nevermind the danger?

_His voice, his music_, she answered herself truthfully. He, through it, had touched her. The music still bound her to him as it had the night of the lesson – not as strongly, but the bond was, unmistakably, there.

She skimmed her slender fingers over the wall in which she knew the door was set, unsure of where the latch was precisely. A few minutes of searching revealed the small catch to her, and she nudged it into place. The door slid open on the dark passageway, the dankness of the lake evident in the _woosh_ of air that stirred into the room. Retrieving the lantern she had had the foresight to acquire, Silvia glanced one final time at her room before stepping through into the Phantom's domain.

The latch of the door was more obvious on the other side, and she flipped it so that her wall mended itself. She had no expectations that anyone would come looking for her so late in the evening, and if someone did, they would undoubtedly assume she was being entertained by – or entertaining – one of the Opera patrons.

The air was chill in the tunnel, having nothing to warm itself with except for cold stone and colder water. Tiny droplets of moisture gathered on the ceiling, falling to the floor in tiny _splats_ when they had amassed enough moisture. Besides their rain-like patter, all was silent. Even the rats moved stealthily, as if they did not dare disrupt the ominous quiet.

Silvia shivered, regretting that she had not thought to bring a cloak. The walk had not seemed so long when she had been in Erik's company. Now it stretched interminably. Her lantern lighted only the smallest circumference, revealing naught but more grey stone and the endless pathway. Although she expected at any moment for the tunnel to widen into the vast hall of the lake, it did not.

Lifting the hand that did not hold the lantern she rubbed her arm briskly, trying to warm her skin. She could feel the tiny bits of gravel and the coldness of the stone floor beneath her feet. Surely the lake was just a few steps further? Was that water murmuring against the bank she heard, or only her mind trying to reassure her? Silvia could not recall any turns they had taken on the way down. She refused to entertain the notion that she might be lost.

The passage opened suddenly – finally – into the vaulted cavern that she recognized from before. A dim light filtered through the vast area, rendering her lantern unnecessary. Across the expanse of water – the form of his house.

She realized in a sudden panic that she had not given any thought to crossing the lake. Swimming in the water frightened her; she could not see into its depths. And there were no pathways to his home that she was aware of.

However, luck was with her. A short investigation revealed the Phantom's boat moored to the shore on which she stood. It was curious that it should be on this side of the water but Silvia did not question her good fortune. Comfortable in her solitude she lifted her skirts above her knees and draped them over an arm, out of the way of her feet and the frigid water. She had no strong arms to catch her should she fall this time.

When she had gained the boat she let fall her skirts and took up the pole. It was quickly evident that it took a subtle skill to maneuver a heavy boat across deep water. Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her brow by the time she came to the far shore, and her arms ached from the effort.

The entrance to his house was a heavy door of carved rosewood, with hinges of gold. She knocked against the door forcefully, striving to be heard through the thick wood. Silence.

She rapped against the door a second time. Still no answer. The Phantom, it seemed, was away from home.

The lack of a cloak was taking its toll on her bare skin. She was shivering now, unable to stop her teeth from clattering or her limbs from shaking. Her arms were not up to the task of returning the boat to the opposite shore. Remembering that Erik did not often make trips into the streets of Paris, Silvia concluded that the best course of action was to remain where she was. Surely he would return soon.

She had little choice, anyway. Better to be stuck here than in the middle of the black lake when the muscles in her arms refused to do any more work.

Sitting down before the ornate door, Silvia folded her arms against her chest and drew her knees up, trying to preserve what little body heat she had left. Certainly she would catch a chill after this ordeal; she could already feel the damp stealing into her throat and lungs.

Many minutes passed in stillness. Only the chattering of her teeth disturbed the quiet. The coldness of the stone was seeping into her skirts, and her eyes were growing heavy. Even though she could not see the stars she knew the hour was late.

"Erik, come home soon," she whispered her plea to no one. Leaning against the door, she allowed her eyes to fall shut.

The labyrinth was secure again. Rusted traps had been oiled and mended, broken blockades had been rebuilt, locks had been fitted on those gates that lacked them. Erik's day had been spent in securing his stronghold, a task that had fallen by the wayside in the intermediary time after Christine's departure.

He exited one of the many tunnels that led up to the Opera's main floors, content that no one would find his home by _that_ route. Not that any tried to find him – not after those weeks of pillaging his home, thieving the baubles that _seemed_ valuable and destroying those things that had _true_ value to him: his music, his organ. It seemed the world above had forgotten him, or assumed he was dead or gone. He had not resumed his notes to the managers of the Opera, and undoubtedly they were relieved to be rid of his presence.

The shore clove into view before him, silent and…empty. His boat was not where he had beached it, nor the pole where he had lain it. Who had gotten through his many measures to prevent trespassers? He recognized the irony in the situation, that someone had broken through his defenses on the very day he had decided to attend to them again.

With a severe frown he sought out one of the alternate paths to his house. He could only pray that he caught his trespasser before they caused too much damage.

Erik entered his home through the rear door, sweeping through the rooms quietly. All was calm. There was no sign of anything, human or otherwise, but the mystery of his boat remained unsolved. Coming to his front door, he unlatched the lock and opened it.

At his feet lay the thief he had been seeking. She was nearly blue with cold, her skin so pale it contrasted even with the ivory of her dress. She lay on her side, huddled in on herself in an effort to keep warm.

Cursing, Erik hurriedly bent and lifted her off of the ground, nudging the door shut behind him. Muttering under his breath at the stubborness of his newest student, he carried her quickly to the bedroom that had once housed Christine and laid her on the bed. Quilt after quilt he tucked around her, and even in spite of the many layers that covered her he built up the fire for further warmth.

"She would ravage her throat with a cold, would she?" He growled, angry at her for the abuse of her voice. And for intruding where she was most assuredly not wanted.

Settling on the edge of the bed, he took her small hand in his own and chaffed it, trying to infuse warmth into the cold fingers. She seemed so fragile. Like Christine, and not. His eyes shifted to the fire and, seeing that it burned steadily, he returned her hand to her side and left to warm some tea.

He could not abide this new strain on his emotions. He knew he was not of the world, did not belong to it, and that nothing of the world could belong to him. And he could be satisfied with that so long as he kept himself apart. Would _have_ to be satisfied with that. Christine had demonstrated to him what the consequences would be, otherwise.

The tea service clattered when he set it on the table beside the swan bed and Silvia stirred slightly. Erik retrieved a mahogany chair from the sitting area and placed it at the bedside, making himself comfortable. Taking her hand within his again, he warmed the cold fingers as best he could.

…………………………………………………..

Silvia woke from dreams of cold, wintry wastelands and brittle trees bent in the wind. She opened weary eyes, almost afraid she would see the dead landscape of snow before her, so vivid had the dreams been. But instead a small room, cozy and warm from the crackling fire, filled her vision. She was buried under a mound of quilts, and beneath her head lay a pillow. For a lingering moment she trolled her mind for an idea of where she could be. Then she recalled her expedition of the evening before, to find Erik and beg him to teach her again.

At the thought of the Phantom, she cast her gaze towards the doorway. And stopped short, when she saw he was sitting at her side, dozing in what must have been an extremely uncomfortable chair.

It was almost enough to merit a giggle – almost. But instead of waking him with laughter she leaned over and caught his hand in hers, pressing her fingers to his in thanks. Were it not for him, she would be a statue of ice and marble on his doorstep by now.

Her touch woke him. He opened his eyes and pinned her with his gaze, his jaw clenched. Silvia frowned.

"What are you doing here? Perhaps my note was not clear?" He asked, his voice leaning towards harshness. "You have trespassed on my property and exposed your voice to the brutality of a cold. I am not entirely sure which crime is worse."

He was angry with her! Silvia stared, open-mouthed, laborously gathering her thoughts to respond. "Erik–" she began, her voice a mere croak.

"Nevermind. Take some tea," he flicked a gesture towards the tea service, "and make yourself presentable. I will escort you back to the upper floors."

"But–" she tried again.

"The sooner the better," he continued, over her, concluding his sentence with the slam of the room's door behind him.


	14. The Trespasser Awakens

Note: Sorry it has been so long...I got distracted by life. Thank you for shaking me out of it, andersm. :) I hope this jives with the rest of the story...I haven't been attentive to it in such a while. Let me know your thoughts, and I will try not to take such a long while with the next chapter.

* * *

Silvia struggled out of the carved bed, the heavy quilts tangling with her legs and impeding her progress. With a final heave she freed herself from the coverings and rushed towards the door. She knew that if she did not press her advantage now – that of being in his home – she would not be given the opportunity again. If she did not corner him and beg his tutelage, she would see neither hide nor hair of him ever again no matter what effort she expended. The Opera was his domain, and all of the doors leading to him would be shut to her if she did not manage to put her foot in the way of them now.

She opened the door to see the winging cloak flutter into the organ room. "Erik!" she called after his departing form, but was not surprised when he ignored her. Her bare feet pattered lightly against the heavy carpets as she followed him determinedly, ignoring the cool underground air that raised bumps on her skin. She rounded the corner and stepped into the organ room, stopping short when she saw he was already facing her, his dark eyes dangerous.

"Erik, will you not listen to me?" She began quickly, determined to say her piece. "Your music, it is why I am here. I want to learn, I want you to tea—"

Silvia broke off with a squeak as the Phantom suddenly closed the distance between them, grasping her shoulders in his bruising grip. "You have no idea what you ask, little one." The diminutive was now an insult. "In your arrogance you expect me to put aside my desires and teach you. You think I am cold and that my heart is also. You think I can stand the sight of…_this_…" he gestured at her, sharply, before continuing, "daily, and resist the temptation. You think I can steel myself against the rejection that I will ultimately experience when your repulsion gets the better of your desire to be taught."

Silvia shivered in his grasp, aware now that she was clad in naught but her chemise, guilty for approaching him in such a fashion and ashamed that he thought it was purposeful, that she had calculated the move in order to persuade him.

"Tell me," he continued, his voice low and dangerous now, "why I should not give you into the care of the siren of the lake. She has no mercy, that one, particularly for trespassers."

His words were meant to frighten, and frighten they did. Silvia had no idea who – or what – the siren might be, and no desire to find out. "Erik, _please_," she pleaded, her hands clutching his coat, leaving creases in the expensive material. "I ask only for your wisdom and your tutelage, nothing more. Nothing more."

He laughed, carelessly, his head thrown back and his teeth glinting like knives.

"Is what the mask conceals so horrible," she continued hurriedly, "as to outweigh the beauty of your voice? I have not truly sung in my life except for under your care. It was far too short a lesson."

Silvia's breath came rasping in her throat, the only noise in the silence that followed her words. The cruel glint that had gleamed in Erik's eyes was gone now, replaced by a considering look. She prayed her words had gotten through to him, and that he wasn't just trying to determine the best way to dispose of her.

"The gods will punish me for this," he said eventually, so quietly that Silvia wasn't sure if the words were meant for her ears. The anger had gone out of him, leeched away and leaving Silvia with the impression of defeat. His shoulders seemed bowed under the weight of some burden, and his eyes more grim. But he nodded as he settled his gaze on her. "I will teach you."

Silvia smiled, relief evident in every line of her body. "Thank you," she said earnestly, stepping forward to grip his hands. Then, impulsively, she moved closer and embraced him. "Thank you," she repeated, her words muffled by his coat. She felt his arms settle around her hesitantly, as though she were fragile, or as though he disliked touching her.

"Silvia," the Phantom murmured, untwining her arms from around his neck. "Little one, if you stand here any longer in that state of undress, I will not be held responsible. Go and change. Your second lesson begins now."

Silvia nodded, her mind working sluggishly after the embrace. She had felt his heart beating, felt the quickening of it, felt the careful hands on her waist. He had been hurt by a woman, by many women during his life, but had he ever been soothed by one?

He watched her warily as she stepped closer to him again. She could see the question in his eyes but gave him no time to ask it aloud. Tip-toe, she pressed a fleeting kiss on his cheek, much like the one he had given her what seemed like aeons ago.

"Thank you," she said for a third time, and turned to go.

His hand on her arm stopped her, and he drew her back inexorably towards him, his arms no longer hesitant. They pressed her slim body against his, and his lips met hers as much from his volition as her own. She slid her arms around his neck once more, the better to be close to him. His hands whispered over her chemise, along her spine and into her hair.

Silvia's thoughts were awhirl when finally he let her go. There did not seem to be enough air in the room to fill her lungs sufficiently, and it was surely a miracle that she was able to stand at all. Her wide eyes gazed into his, both of their expressions somewhat awe-struck, somewhat fearful.

He recovered first, his gaze becoming hooded and distant, his mouth a thin line once more. "That must not happen again," he bit out in a harsh voice, and Silvia did not argue. She stood rooted to the spot, her cheeks flushed and her limbs trembling. "Go and change," he ordered her, and when she did not move immediately he took a step towards her. "Go and change. NOW!"

She fled.


End file.
